Over night the boundaries moved the buoys
it was not so much as is the struggle
struggle just too struggle in-between.
The currant never slows it's ceaseless pace
as it marches from one mouth and out the other.
When their is never time to rest, before.
Floating on my back to catch my breath,
is life and death.
She is looking out and I am looking up.
Their is this one place they know about.
And it is there, 'I stand up bucking the tide.
The struggle to remember I forget
is more than even the burning yellow sun.
and when, 'I finally reach the shore
tired but never out of breath moving backwards
against the running water always bumping too
is when laying down next to the closest foot
upon the sand with toes that move as grass
and waves talk indiscriminately a little loudly
about which one can he touch off of next,
that led me off and further out, ' too long from shore.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem